


Fault Line

by captainkoirk



Series: Hindsight is 20/20 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Blowjobs, Bottom Scott, Does Anyone Even Understand Werewolf Rules, Especially not Jeff Davis tbh, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Rimming, Sex in the Jeep, Sex in the woods, Sloppy Makeouts, What the Heckie is a True Alpha, good thing his opinions Do Not Matter, nope - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkoirk/pseuds/captainkoirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Stiles has with Scott isn't waiting because it just isn't. Scott is a constant just under Stiles' skin, in his veins and his bones and between his ribs <i>always</i>. Everything is moving forward in this endless cycle of <i>them</i>- worn grooves in each other's psyches and uncharted territory between them- and even if they can't always just be because they've taken it upon themselves to be the ones that <i>stave</i>, Stiles can't categorize it as impatience and waiting because those things jump back from the forefront on your mind, sometimes often, sometimes not, because they are <i>events</i>. Scott isn't something that <i>happens</i>.</p>
<p>"I'm in love with you." Stiles says, grin cracking across his face. It's a fault line, sharp with how Scott's rearranged him inside out, and Stiles doesn't want it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles can be patient when it counts. Not always, not even most times, hardly sometimes, but there are a few key moments when need outweighs want and things can click into place. He chalks it up to the abstract intelligence of insomnia, nights spent with chaos brewing behind his temporal lobe as he resists the urge to speed-read, soaking in everything he needs to know on a dimmed laptop screen because it's about survival, now.

 

Scott is something else.

 

Stiles has divided so much of his life into waiting and wanting and having and losing and now, with hindsight at 20/20, it seems like a waste and a luxury, because nothing is _either or,_ anymore.

 

What Stiles has with Scott isn't waiting because it just isn't. Scott is a constant just under Stiles' skin, in his veins and his bones and between his ribs _always._ Everything is moving forward in this endless cycle of _them-_ worn grooves in each other's psyches and uncharted territory between them- and even if they can't always just be because they've taken it upon themselves to be the ones that _stave,_ Stiles can't categorize it as impatience and waiting because those things jump back from the forefront on your mind, sometimes often, sometimes not, because they are _events._ Scott isn't something that _happens_.

 

There is wanting, of course. There is having that Stiles is crazed with and _still_ cannot wrap his head around- when Scott kisses him like it's the most natural thing in the world- and it makes him lightheaded, living for something that he isn't borrowing or stealing or pining after.

 

Stiles does not think about loss because he cannot think beyond it, and not being able to look forward goes against every rule he's branded into his head with trial and error and error and _error._

 

(It's happened before, the kind of losing that made the ground beneath Stiles' feet simply no longer exist, and Stiles cannot remember the exact lilt and pattern of Mom's voice, not anymore, but Scott was there then and he is now, and-)

 

They're lying in Scott's bed, and the folds of the sheets stiffened with sweat and wrinkled- crushed- by body mass and the two of them writhing. The mattress sags, a little, burdened with the sheer weight of their _I-love-yous_ and their nights and mornings; simple friendship and mutually shared childhoods and The Now and Forever because there's nothing beyond _This._

 

Scott stretches in the glow of Friday evening, and the weakening sunlight accommodates him, fitting into his dips and soft edges. They're not touching, in their aftermath, because sometimes it's still so inevitably consuming, how much they're entrenched in each other, and if there isn't some kind of small, bearable separation they'll just _fuse_ ; them as a unit has always been Stiles' eternal constant and driving force, and now it's the trigger and the bullet and the reason, the rays of varying social bonds- best friend, brother, lover- all wrapped up into something unquantifiable that somehow manages to be the least dangerous thing in Stiles' life.

 

They're still not touching, when Scott brackets Stiles' body between his knees and hands and leans in not quite close enough. Stiles doesn't shift his hips up, doesn't arch his back, and Scott's smile is so, so clear when everything else is still hazy- a scrunched-up look through a post-coital kaleidoscope.

 

"I'm gonna shower." Scott says, lifting himself up and off, and the bed frame groans in protest when Stiles is too fucked-out to even consider trying.

 

Stiles doesn't hook his ankle around Scott's leg, then, because it's like a dare and a spell, when they're not touching, like they're seeing how long they can before someone gives in, like it's something that's suspended that they'll break.

 

"Mhm. I'll come with."

 

Scott inclines his head, biting his lip. "Could you wait here? Or do you really wanna shower?"

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, waiting on it, because Scott is careful with requests and reasoning, and Scott's looking at him like he's got a plan that he's waiting to share with his partner in crime.

 

"I want my clean with your, uhm, your dirty-" Scott starts, and Stiles fills in the gaps, because that's how they work.

 

"You want- I smell like us when we fuck, and _you-_ wow. Contrast. Juxtaposition. Go, go, gogo _go,_ shower, make it fast."

 

Scott grins, and it's slow and thick with the clarity of how they _get_ each other, inside and out and all around, and he doesn't quite run to the bathroom, but he's close.

 

(Stiles had been wary of using the word 'fuck', before; it felt like too little too fast, like it couldn't contain what he and Scott, were, are, will be. But then Stiles had Scott on his back, and Scott had said _oh, fuck me harder, please, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles-_ )

 

Stiles curls into the mattress, and he's smiling, and he doesn't know when he started. It's Friday evening, the weekend spanning forward in front of them with near-limitless possibilities. They have homework, and the war isn't over (Stiles isn't sure it could ever be _over_ ), but there's a lull, and Stiles knows everything is pretty fucked up, but there's this- _them._

 

So Stiles let's his smile split his face, because he never thought wanting and having could coexist quite this way, because they've been independent from each other maybe not mostly, but often.

 

But now, it's Friday evening, and he's wrapped up in Scott's bed, lying where the mattress is still warm and dented from Scott's body, and he can hear the spray of the shower and Scott scrubbing his skin. Stiles drifts a little, ignoring the stickiness of his own skin and the gut-deep gurgle of his anticipation, his _I-love-yous_ heavy like honey under his tongue. He's waiting, but he's not impatient, for all that he _wants._

 

Scott hovers by the bed when he comes back, and his skin isn't red from the steam and the scrubbing, but when Stiles rolls onto his side and tugs the towel from his hips, the spell breaks, and Scott is crawling over him, wet skin and dark eyes.

 

Scott splays a hand on the swell of Stiles' thigh, and heavy lids and heat behind his whole form, and all Stiles can focus on is his hand- pushing _just-_

 

Scott slinks up his chest with the uptick of Stiles' heart, and he kisses him with brutal single-mindedness, losing the dare. Stiles pulls his hands down Scott's back, and he doesn't use his nails, but the slow drag is enough.

 

Scott sinks against him, slick skin cold on Stiles' sleep-warm body, breathing in with his mouth wide open under Stiles' jaw. Stiles rolls his hips up, and Scott licks a wet, broad stripe up the column of his neck.

 

"Is this what you-" Stiles asks, the red scroll of Scott's tongue exploring the dip of his clavicles, and when Scott smiles sharp against his collarbone, teeth nicking, Stiles sees _stars._

 

It's frantically slow, Scott curving his palms over Stiles' hips, dragging him down the bed, face and mouth pushing against the planes of Stiles' body, tasting him- _them-_ on Stiles' skin. Stiles pulls his fingers through Scott's wet hair, doesn't quite whine, but Scott can feel it bubbling under his sternum, curls back and kisses the tip of Stiles' cock.

 

Stiles starts, then, Scott's fingers pressing his hips down, and Scott doesn't even _tease-_

 

Scott's been stymied into single-mindedness by the smell of the two of them on Stiles' skin, and his tongue doesn't stutter when Stiles tips his hips up, heels against the footboard.

 

"I-" Stiles starts, and he doesn't even know what he's asking, but Scott's already hiking his hips up like he doesn't weigh a thing, and _that's-_

 

(Stiles is never sure what turns him on more- when Scott manhandles him, taking him with his wolf just under his skin, or when Stiles calls the shots, all that raw force still under Stiles' hands.)

 

Scott's got his face buried in the dark hair under Stiles' navel, getting as close as he can, rutting against the mattress with abandon. Stiles grabs at what he can- the hair at the base of Scott's neck, the sheets about his head, his _nerves,_ reality-

 

Stiles tries not to fuck Scott's mouth (Scott had asked Stiles to _fuck him harder,_ so prettily- in actual seriousness, and Stiles' brain had short circuited). He really does. But Scott's pulling the pads of his fingers down Stiles' hipbones, like he's _encouraging_ him- and his eyes are definitely encouraging, while his mouth is otherwise occupied, lips stretched out over, _oh_ -

 

Stiles tries. He really does.

 

Trying ends up with him squirming under Scott's hands, bucking into the slick heat of Scott's mouth, stumbling over half-formed words; promises, pleas, _I-love-yous,_ Scott's name- it's a punched-up, brain-scrambled narrative that skips and loops through Stiles' bone marrow. 

 

Scott stops suddenly, with obscene wet noise that Stiles has locked in the back of his head. He smiles, the small bright thing he does when he's particularly pleased with himself, and Stiles, for his part, doesn't growl or whimper or tug or threaten. He gasps at the loss, high in the back of his throat, sounding more desperate than he'd allow with anyone- _anyone-_ else, but this is Scott, and they've been falling together since Stiles has been cataloguing.

 

Scott kisses the inside of Stiles' thigh with teeth, and Stiles is dizzy with thinking about how that's going to bruise, hands pushing up against the slats of Stiles' ribcage. He's pinning Stiles down and keeping him afloat, and when he splays a hand over the back of Stiles' thigh, tongue dragging over-

 

Stiles _contorts,_ fingers spasming and back bending sharp in the middle- and how is this _Stiles' life,_ Scott's tongue in his ass on a casual Friday evening?

 

There's heat coiling tight under Stiles' belly, and there's no air left in his lungs. When he comes, he feels Scott _melt_ against him, getting off on Stiles getting off, and it makes Stiles' head spin.

 

Scott licks the come off Stiles belly, hands petting- cool against Stiles' skin- and Stiles can't quite form words yet, can't quite get his mouth to work right, but Scott kisses him sweet like a thanks, and Stiles squeezes the back of his neck.

 

They lie with Scott sprawled over Stiles' chest, breath curling into the dip under Stiles' sternum, hearing trained on Stiles' heartbeat. Scott's heavy on his body, fitting against his lines and hollows, and that's _them-_ two halves, spanning back and forth on a Friday evening.

 

"I started counting you as my first kiss." Stiles says, and he's not sure where- _why-_ that comes from, and it hangs over the silence like an old sweatshirt. Scott looks up under his lashes, chin resting between one of the slats of Stiles' ribs, and Stiles wonders if they'll ever stop staring at each other like they're _starstruck._

 

"I-" Scott starts, and the tips of his ears are red, and Stiles kisses him like he remembers he must have, clunky and nervous with his lips chapped from the wind and sun. Scott's hands are light on his shoulders, like they must have been, and there's electricity where their mouths are catching.

 

Stiles sits up, and he's careful, trying to draw on something hazy he spent so much time ignoring, and this is like another spell. Everything feels like untested deja vu, addictive in its simplicity, and Stiles doesn't dwell on thoughts of time.

 

They're not going anywhere, with kisses like these- just parts of each other that they get to figure out, now. They stop, hands on waists and shoulders, tongues tucked into their own mouths, and Scott smiles like he can't believe any of it; kisses Stiles on the curve of his nose like Stiles is learning he's wont to do. Stiles wrinkles his nose on reflex, because it makes Scott laugh.

 

"I'm in love with you." Scott says, and it's easy like stating a fact, but it's not recitation or repetition, and Stiles wants to wrap himself in it- can, essentially, if Scott's arms strong around his body are anything to go by.

 

"I'm in love with you." Stiles says, grin cracking across his face. It's a fault line, sharp with how Scott's rearranged him inside out, and Stiles doesn't want it any other way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!
> 
> i am
> 
> busy
> 
> often
> 
> but i am glad y'all are enjoying this and i will try to write things often!!!

"What time's it?" Scott asks, sometime later, when they're lying on top of the sheets, not quite touching.

 

Stiles tips his head back, bringing the neon numbers of his alarm clock into focus. "Like, seven-ish?"

 

Scott rolls over, plucking his singlet off the standing lamp (Stiles had stripped him as soon as they were alone, Isaac had bolted after ditching his backpack, rolling his eyes all they way out the door). Stiles watches, on his side with his arm tucked under his head. Scott bends, rummaging for his jeans and boxer briefs on the floor, and Stiles watches smooth skin stretching over vertebrae. There are no scars. 

 

(There's one, on the crest of Scott's left hipbone. They've never talked about it, but Stiles has touched it with Scott's eyes on him-)

 

"Wanna bring my mom dinner at work?" Scott pulls on Stiles' flannel, and even unbuttoned, it's too tight around his biceps and shoulders and across his back, and Stiles smiles into the crook of his elbow.

 

"Yeah, I can drive us."

 

"You're the best, dude. Wanna, like, drive… somewhere, after? You wanna drive somewhere afterwards?"

 

"Yeah."

 

They're on the hood of the jeep, deep in the preserve. It's a clear night, and Stiles can see the stars behind the clean silhouettes of the tall, spindly pines. He can see his breath in the air, too. The moon is a perfect half. Scott's tucked flush behind him, even if Stiles is the taller one, and he's warm against Stiles' back. Stiles is wearing Scott's hoodie, since Scott appropriated Stiles' flannel. It's a little short in the sleeves, but it smells like Scott's shampoo, and it's soft from his body.

 

"So. You're, like, a True Alpha. Does it feel any different?"

 

Scott hooks his chin over Stiles' shoulder, sighing. "Yeah. It's kind of scary."

 

Stiles tips his head back, keeping his eyes to the sky. Scott's hands are folded in the pockets of his- Scott's- hoodie, flat over Stiles' hips. "Like, how do you mean?" Stiles asks, voice a little small. Sometimes, he feels helpless. There are too many things that he doesn't understand, too many things that scare him.

 

"It feels like there's an actual wolf in me. It wasn't like that before." Scott says, and he's shifted, his face pressed against Stiles' neck.

 

"What does that feel like?" Stiles asks, and it's quiet and low, and he's facing the sky, but his eyes are squeezed shut. Scott's hands are solid through the fabric of the hoodie, and Stiles pushes into them, just a little.

 

"Sometimes I'll try to reach for something, and if I'm in a really... emotional state, I'll almost drop it. Because I don't know my hands anymore. It's like the wolf parts are lined up with my parts, just under my skin."

 

"What do you do?"

 

"I think about you." Scott says, into Stiles' skin.

 

"What- what does _that_ feel like?" Stiles asks, and he's already breathless.

 

"It makes the wolf small again. And it's warm in my chest, like it's sleeping there." Scott presses a palm over Stiles' chest, pushing the swell of his lower lip up Stiles' neck, and when Stiles arches his back, he holds him still.

 

Stiles isn't worried about being loud, out here in the woods, when Scott's got his teeth and tongue on the column of Stiles' neck and his hands under Stiles' shirt. He grips Scott's thighs, squirms under his hands, and there's a stream of desperate nonsense coming from his mouth.

 

"Can you- mark up my neck, make everyone know I'm yours? _Please_ , I know I can't give you any, but I like it when-"

 

Scott pulls back, then, and Stiles _whines,_ contorting against Scott's chest.

 

"Remember when we were talking about- uh, Alpha stuff?"

 

"Uh, Alpha stuff? As in five minutes ago?" Stiles asks, and drops his head back on Scott's shoulder.

 

Scott blushes, rubbing the back of his neck, and sounds sheepish when he talks. "So, I have a theory I think we should test out."

 

"Please tell me we can test it out in the backseat, dude. Preferably naked."

 

" _Oh,_ do we have-"

 

"Glove compartment." Stiles singsongs, kind of hysterical with how Scott's hands are absentmindedly tracing his ribs.

 

Scott smiles then, and it's almost a shy thing, lit up from inside and tinted by the moon. Stiles twists around and plants one on him them, messy as he tries not to slide down the hood of the car.

 

"What do you want?" Scott asks, and their teeth catch when he pulls Stiles closer.

 

"You, always-" Stiles gasps, and Scott curls his fingers under Stiles' chin, curls his tongue over Stiles' mouth.

 

"So, my theory," Scott starts, hand pressed to the small of Stiles' back as Stiles straddles him. "I think I can control, when I, uhm- I think you can give me hickies."

 

"I- _you-_ How? Scott-"

 

"Alphas have more control over healing, so I guess that means-"

 

"That is a super fucking sound theory. Backseat. Now. Now, now, nownow _now-_ "

 

Scott lifts Stiles so _easily,_ holding him up and nudging against his mouth as Stiles wraps his legs around Scott's waist. It's a cold night, with the dry leaves crunching underfoot, but they're sharing one breathing space, and Stiles grins when Scott stumbles a little, after Stiles pushes his hands into Scott's back pockets. They're in each other's lungs under a half-cut moon, and Stiles is wanting and having, all at once.

 

Stiles crawls up Scott's body, flat on the backseat, all elbows and knees as he struggles to ditch his hoodie. Scott tips his hips up, scooting out of his jeans, and Stiles' flannel is so _tight_ across his shoulders. There's reverence in the way Stiles peels off Scott's clothes; slowly, his brows knit like this body is a new complexity, but it isn't (but it _is_ ).

 

It's taciturn, how they strip and curve into each other; Scott baring his neck and belly, Stiles unsure where he should start (he was almost wanting something he didn't think he could have, and now it's almost waiting, except it's never _waiting,_ where Scott is concerned).

 

He bites just under Scott's jaw, and Scott arches into him like he's spring-loaded. Stiles slots against him, and Scott's encouraging him with a hand still warm on the small of his back and loud, _loud_ sounds.

 

It's red.

 

It's red, where Stiles bit Scott, and the skin is a little raised. Stiles licks, then, laving his tongue over the red ( _red_ ) mark, and Scott moans and twists under him. Stiles' body is tight with want, and Scott's hands are gentle and capable where Stiles is all dazed roughness.

 

"I need-" Scott stumbles, a hand flat on the swell of Stiles' ass, and the necessity of _them_ makes Stiles kiss him hard (kiss him red, lips swollen).

 

"You need?" Stiles asks, grinding his hips down, and there's _possibility-_ they could do absolutely anything. Stiles would let Scott do absolutely _anything_ to him, and it should be scary, but it isn't.

 

"Just, keep- keep doing, uhm, _more-_ "

 

Stiles nips at the base of Scott's throat, and his teeth make the skin red ( _red_ ) and blotchy. "So this means that tomorrow, there'll be-" Stiles whispers, and he can't keep the awe from crawling through his vocal chords.

 

Scott nods, short and small, and his pupils are blown out, but Stiles wonders if he might see red there, if he asked.

 

"What does your Wolf need? Is it the same, sometimes?"

 

"When it's you." Scott chokes out, writhing under Stiles' mouth fused to his collarbone.

 

Stiles sits back, narrows his eyes, and he feels dizzy with how much he wants, how much he _has._


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles sits back because he needs to breathe, deep in his cell structure. Everything is dark with edges inside the Jeep, all shadow and contour, but the clean lines of Scott's body are soft invitations. Stiles reaches out with his fingers, hovering over the mark on Scott's hip.

 

"Can I- here? I mean, leave a hickey?" Stiles' voice is small, now, even if there's no one else around for a mile. It's small because this is something they don't talk about, even if it's just between them, still.

 

There's moonlight slanting through the car window, and Stiles stays still when Scott's pupils eat up the colour in his eyes and his legs shake.

 

"God, yes- Stiles-"

 

Scott slips his name in like he's begging, and when Stiles curls his fingers over the pale scar under the pale moon, Scott tips into it, whining in the back of his throat. There are implications, and then there are _implications._

 

This is a bite scar, _the_ bite scar. Maybe it's why the sun still rises in Beacon Hills, with Scott McCall around to save the day. Maybe it's why the nights feel so dense, like weights settling on their chests. It's the maybe-catalyst of everything Stiles wishes he hadn't wished for, and everything he didn't even dare _try_ to thinking about.

 

This was Peter's trapdoor into Scott's head, the loose floorboard leading under Scott's skin. Stiles wants to make it _his_ with tongue and teeth, let a purple stain spread like an antidote. 

 

Stiles curls his spine as slow as he dares, soothing his hands up Scott's sides. Stiles' skittering cycle of internal narration demands ceremony in the face of screaming symbolism, and Stiles indulges himself because he knows he's allowed, now.

 

When Stiles goes for something, he _really_ does. Enthusiasm holding together the seams of theoretical understanding. He laves his tongue from the dip to the crest of Scott's hipbone like he's scraping off the dirt of the forest floor (one fall evening, and the leaves had crunched underfoot, and there had been red eyes behind the trees and a dead girl neatly in half, like the moon heavy over the Jeep right _now_ -)

 

Scott bends up at the hips (a _half_ ), and Stiles nicks him with his teeth because it makes him twist through his whole body, toes curling and heart hammering under Stiles' hands, and that's all it takes to bring Stiles back.

 

" _Stiles_ -" Scott draws out the lone syllable through his teeth, and he spreads his legs as much as the backseat will allow, legs bent and flush creeping up his ears under the pale light of the moon. And just like that, it's a dare and the breaking of the spell, and Stiles is fusing his mouth over the old and new raised skin, white and red and _his,_ now.

 

"You're mine, right?" Stiles whispers against Scott's skin, dragging a hand up Scott's cock. "That was from- when, it, _you_ , now we're-"

 

Scott shifts them so _easily,_ hands scrabbling at Stiles' shoulders as he pulls Stiles onto his lap, half-sitting. "Yours, anything, _Stiles_ -"

 

Stiles has one hand on Scott's dick and the other tight in Scott's hair, and Scott's eyes are glazed over and his lips are slack, and Stiles knows they're not gonna make it to the lube and condoms tucked away in the glove compartment.

 

Scott kisses him all soft and adoring, and it's obscene and downright _unfair_ , how he can kiss like that with Stiles squirming in his lap.

 

There are still old teeth marks on Scott's skin, but Stiles sees red- his red, and he pushes his thumb against the almost-bruise and rocks forward, looking for the right angle.

 

"Just like this?" Scott smiles, a broad hand splayed in the small of Stiles' back, and Stiles is all mixed up, between settling back into the calluses of Scott's palm or rutting against him with abandon. Scott solves it, though; pushing Stiles flush against him with one capable hand, and Stiles is completely lost in the reverence of Scott's mouth on his and the _obvious-_

 

"Are we ever gonna figure out how to- just, we never make it to... sorry, I-" Stiles gasps into Scott's mouth, Scott's tongue curling over his lower lip.

 

"Hey, it doesn't- Stiles, this is-" Scott tips his head back, breathes in. "It's not an _event,_ it's, we-"

 

Everything sort of clicks, then, because Stiles doesn't apply his own thought processes to himself, but he'll hang on to anything Scott's telling him. Stiles gets his mouth on Scott's clavicles then, and he's kind of fucking obsessed with those clavicles, and he's really fucking turned on, like, dials-falling-off turned all the way on.

 

"-everything, alright? It's you and me, so don't worry about-"

 

Stiles kisses him, then, because he doesn't know what to say, and Scott cradles Stiles' skull like he's something valuable. Stiles has a hand braced on the cool glass of the car window, and his eyes are closed because when he sees Scott looking at him, he feels too _much_.

 

Scott's kissing back, though, worshipping Stiles' mouth with unabashed, white eagerness and rolling his hips up brain-meltingly slow. When he drags the base of his palm over Stiles' cock, Stiles snaps his eyes open, and Scott's eyes are looking right back, like two glasses of root beer warmed by the afternoon sun, and Stiles is a little scared by the blooming feeling in his chest.

 

Stiles buries his face in the crook of Scott's shoulder, exploring with his teeth and tongue, because he's new to mapping _these_ parts of Scott with _these_ parts of himself, because he wants and he has, and it's dizzyingly amazing and just shy of terrifying. Scott jumps a little when Stiles worries at the soft skin just above his collarbone, tipping his head back with a soft thud against the glass.

 

"Just like this." Scott keens high in the back of his throat, hand on Stiles' back keeping him in place, and hand on Stiles' dick pulling him to the edge.

 

"Anything, right?" Stiles breathes, small and shallow, eyes on the clench of Scott's jaw when he nods. "I- wanted to fuck you in my car because you're mine, but when we start with each other, I can't just-"

 

" _Stiles,_ h-holy _god_ -"

 

"I can't stop with you. You have your hands on me and you're looking up at me and you _love_ me, and I love you and I _have_ you."

 

"I'm yours. You know that, right?"

 

"I-" Stiles starts, and he doesn't finish because there's a squirmy feeling deep in his gut and red on Scott's neck and Scott's touch on his cock.

 

Stiles comes with his teeth on Scott's lower lip, contorting in Scott's lap. It's delicious how Scott snaps raw noise into Stiles' mouth, lewd and muffled with Stiles' tongue.

 

It doesn't take long for Scott to follow, Stiles curved over him with his mouth open wider than it needs to be, breath fogging up the window behind Scott's clear, _clear_ eyes. Scott comes with a broad hand spasming on Stiles' back and his breath hot on Stiles' neck.

 

It's a little later, when they're lying in the back seat with Stiles tucked under Scott's chin, that Stiles starts feeling nervous about things he would usually talk to Scott about. So, he tries.

 

"What if I screw this up?"

 

"What do you mean?" Scott asks, earnest for all that his voice is thick with with a daze. Something flutters in Stiles' chest, knowing that he put it there, but-

 

"Just, like, us."

 

"You're not going to screw it up, Stiles."

 

"I screw up a lot of things."

 

"I don't think so. Besides, it's _us_." Scott says, emphasis on _them_ \- and it's that simples, sometimes. It's them. It's always been them. Something loosens in Stiles' chest, and when he goes in for a kiss, he can't stop his mouth from smiling against Scott's.

 

"Christ, Scott."

 

"What?"

 

"You." Stiles says, and he runs a finger down Scott's nose, going cross-eyed trying to focus. "I'm still gonna try to fuck you. Just give me, like, ten minutes."

 

Scott laughs, then, and it's contagious like the goddamn plague. Stiles settles into Scott's chest, matching his breathing to Scott's heartbeat and Scott's fingers in his hair.

 

It takes Stiles seven minutes of drifting behind his eyelids to follow through, scrambling between the seats and fumbling in the glove compartment. Scott smooths a hand up the back of Stiles' thigh, and Stiles has to stop and breathe, with what Scott says next.

 

"If you're comfortable with it, we don't have to use a condom. I'd like to feel, uhm."

 

"Jesus, _Scott_ -" Stiles breathes, and it's as far as he gets before he's awkwardly shoving his way into the backseat, pushing a hand between Scott's thighs and nipping at his mouth. "- of course, I want- Scott. Jesus Christ."

 

Scott's smiling all demure, even as he's tipping his head back and spreading his legs, and Stiles can never get over how broad his chest and shoulders are, still soft for all the power under Scott's skin. Stiles gets right between his thighs, all single-mindedness and seeing stars, and he's three fingers deep into Scott before he registers the garble peeling off his tongue; how it's making Scott writhe.

 

"So good for me, Scott, gonna make you come, lick you clean, god, I _love you_ , love how you're mine, how you know who you belong to-"

 

"- _Stiles_ -"

 

"-anything, Scott, just tell me."

 

"Just," and Scott smiles, then, completely shameless with how Stiles is making him fall apart, and Stiles has been lost for a long, long time. "fuck me, please. I like it when you talk."

 

Stiles gives Scott a sloppy, two fingered salute, and it's ridiculous, how they exist with each other like they always have, even when Stiles has his fingers slicked and crooked in Scott's ass. Life can take you strange places, Stiles concludes, with what little of his brain isn't occupied with ScottScott _Scott_.

 

They readjust, Scott complying when Stiles tugs at his hips, pressing a palm against the car door and pushing his body further down the seat, wrapping his legs around Stiles' waist and grinning _sharp_ when Stiles hikes one limb over his shoulder.

 

"I want you." He says, with red on his neck, and Stiles kisses him like he wants to crawl inside his mouth and stay and stay and _stay_.

 

It's more than a little awkward, with Scott's heels bracing against the confines of the vehicle and the back of his head hitting the car door, but his eyes are wild like a goddamn creature of the night, and it makes Stiles delirious with how Scott bares his neck for him. Stiles gets his mouth and hands all over that soft skin, grinding his hips forward as slow as he can bear, soaking in how Scott's throat vibrates under his tongue, pouring over choked-off moans and Stiles' name.

 

Stiles wants this to last, because this is way, _way_ up there on fantasy fulfillment, but that's kind of why he worried it won't, but Stiles doesn't _do_ half-assed. So he bits his lips and focuses on keeping rhythm, index finger pushing into his ( _his_ ) bruise on Scott's hip, shallow thrusts making Scott _beg,_ and being this possessive over a _person_ probably isn't healthy, but.

 

"Please touch me, Stiles, _Stiles,_ please, pleasepleaseplease _please_ -"

 

And Stiles does, because he knows he could never deny Scott anything, anything at all. He kisses Scott so, so gently while he jacks him off, and he imagines how his car must smell like _them_ , how heady it must be for Scott.

 

"Does it smell like _us_ , in here?"

 

"Y-yeah."

 

" _God_."

 

It doesn't take much longer, after that. Scott's pupils are blown out, and Stiles feels dizzy with how drawn in they make him, and he buries his face in Scott's shoulder when he comes, knowing Scott can hear him when he tells him he loves him, thinks about his come running down Scott's thighs.

 

Scott makes a noise somewhere between a snarl and a sob when Stiles pulls out, but he stays still, and Stiles licks him from the base of his spine to his balls, and Scott _shouts,_ caught in the stale air of the car with his heels digging into the upholstery and his come all over Stiles' hand.

 

Stiles laves it off his fingers with his eyes on Scott, and his taste is all mixed up with Scott's, and he doesn't know how he's fallen so deep into someone else, even if Scott has hardly qualified as _else_ , for a long, long time.

 

"I'm kind of fucking obsessed with you, you know?" Stiles says, and his voice falters a little, but Scott pushes himself up on his elbows and licks his come off the corner of his mouth, so.

 

"Yeah. Me too, though. About you."

 

Stiles ducks his head and smiles, and Scott curls his tongue over his chin and tells him he loves him, and Stiles wonders if that will ever not make his heart jump up in his throat. The search for their respective underwear and pants is punctuated by shy smiles and wandering hands, and when Scott struggles to pull his jeans on in the back seat, Stiles pushes the pad of his tongue up Scott's happy trail all slow, and they get a little sidetracked.

 

"Can we do my bike next?" Scott asks, and his hair's all stuck up, and he's wearing Stiles' boxers under his jeans, and Stiles wants and has, all at once, and he's never, _never_ getting over how good it feels.

 

"God, yeah."

Scott rubs his neck and smiles all demure like he didn't just have Stiles' dick up his ass, and Stiles thinks about the marks that'll be there tomorrow, and the one on his hip, and how it'll show when he lifts his arms, and how it'll be  _Stiles'_ , and Stiles is racking up a pretty long list of things he'll never get over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dea (lunarcaustic@ao3, tofixtheshadows@tumblr) and lydia (scottinpanties@tumblr) are wicked enablers and dea was like "but what if scott used his healing powers for hickey purposes" and i was like "wow haha thanks my life is over"


End file.
